


The War of the Ring

by MiniMoxx



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Multi, Multi - Freeform, Short, one shots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 09:49:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniMoxx/pseuds/MiniMoxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a collections of drabbles I've written about different characters. Taken from random prompts and that :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A/N: This one I've already posted, but this is from the prompt 'throne'

~~  
Merry stood in the middle of the Great Hall of Edoras, staring at the throne, where King Théoden used to sit. He had tears in his eyes; it was only a day until the funeral. What did that even mean, what would the funeral of a King be like? He had only been to a few funerals, all of Hobbits, none of men, none of Elves, and certainly not one of a King, and a great King at that. Merry looked down at his Rohirrim armour; he had been there when Théoden died, so that made it even worse. He stood there, beside the King in the middle of battle, orc blood all over him, and he couldn’t do anything to help him. The man could have been sitting where Merry was now looking if he had actually done something.  
He approached the throne, usually occupied by the new King, but was now empty. He looked at it closely; golden, comfortable-looking. He thought if Pippin was here, then they would have no doubt been sitting on the throne by now, laughing and smoking on it, and Eomer would have scorned them, and they probably would have been kicked out of Edoras or something.  
Last time they were both in the Great Hall together, it had gone so wrong. But that was all done and gone now. Frodo and Sam had done it, they had destroyed the Ring and saved Middle Earth; no looking back now.  
He sighed and turned back towards the doors and sat on a chair in the far corner, still staring at the throne of Rohan. Merry thought that maybe one day, he would love to be a King. He remembered all the old stories he heard from his dad about the Kings of Old, and of the Gondorian Kings before the line was taken over by Stewards. The Royal families were always looked up to, seen as something God-like. It was a power that was high and mighty, the King was high in power, rich, strong, and protected like no other. Just like Aragorn was going to be quite soon in Gondor.  
“Maybe one day, somehow,” Merry told himself with a smile and he stood up. “King Meriadoc Brandybuck of the Shire.” The name seemed fitting, he thought to himself. He liked it.  
Maybe he should try and make himself King of the Shire. What a wonderful thing it would be. If, of course, he could ever make such a plan work; saying that, Pippin could probably think of something.

“Pip, what do you think of ‘King Meriadoc Brandyback of the Shire’?” Merry asked his cousin with a smile. He looked at his cousin with a look of triumph on his face.  
“I think it…sounds good, Merry, but rather impossible. Us hobbit’s don’t have Kings,” Pippin replied, munching his way through an apple. Merry frowned and looked around; he wanted an apple too.  
“I know, but why not make one now? I think I would be a great King. Like Théoden, or Aragorn will be. Don’t you think?” Merry asked, scowling as he found an apple, but it meant he had to get up and get it. He did, and when he had the apple, he bit into it, watching Pippin intently as he thought about Merry’s plan.  
“Merry, you’d make a great King, but how in the world will you become a King? We are only two hobbits,” Pippin said, a tone of sympathy in his voice.  
“That’s where we could do this, together, Pip,” Merry smiled down at his cousin. As the taller of the two, and he was now standing, he had a vast height difference against Pippin, and that he liked; it meant he could have authority and make all the plans. He watched Pippin smile in thought while he bit his apple. Merry smiled back, his chest practically expanding with the surge of love he suddenly felt for his cousin; Pippin was a good little hobbit, yet to come of age, but still, he was the other half of Merry, and he couldn’t think of doing a single thing without him.  
Well, apart from the war, where he was split from Pippin by Gandalf, but still, they found each other in the end, and it had always been Merry’s plan to fight for not only Middle Earth – and Frodo and Sam – but for Pippin, he needed to get back to Pippin, and the only way he could see to do that was to ride to war and fight his way to his cousin. Because that’s what they did, him and Pip, they fought to be together, they fought for each other, and they would never be split up again. Never.  
“Try it out, Merry,” Pippin nodded to the throne, a wide smile lighting up his cheeky face. Merry frowned, staring again at the throne.  
“I don’t want to get caught by King Eomer,” Merry said, shaking his head. “He might not be as…nice as Théoden.” He laughed nervously, oh, how much he wanted to sit on that throne, where his good friend had once sat, telling Merry the tales of Rohan, of his world and his wars. Merry could be like that, one day, telling his children, his grandchildren, his friends, of the tales of the War of the Ring, of the waking of the Ents, of the war at Gondor, the travels he had as a young hobbit, of saving the world so they could be in this world and where they are now.  
“Just try it, just once,” Pippin insisted. Merry looked at him and his hopeful expression. “If you are ever going to be King Meriadoc, then you have to at least try it out. The King won’t mind.”   
Merry sighed and rolled his eyes, discarding the half eaten apple to Pippin’s hands and he scuttled over to the throne. He looked at the seat, beautifully carved with the Rohirric symbol of horses in the wood, the colours in the seat itself and he smiled. His longing to sit in the seat, even for just a moment, was rising, until finally he couldn’t take it anymore.  
“Just once, not for long,” Merry nodded, licking his lips as Pippin approached. He turned and lowered himself into the big throne. It was far too big for his small hobbit frame, but to Merry, it felt right instantly. He smiled, sitting in the throne of the Rohirrim, the place he had helped fight for, the home of his dear friend…  
“What does it feel like, Merry?” Pippin asked, the excitement radiating from his face. Merry looked around before letting his eyes fall on his cousin, and he smiled.  
“Sit with me, Pippin, look,” Merry moved over so they could both fit on the throne. Pippin sat and Merry put his arm around Pip’s waist, feeling so comfortable on the seat, maybe a little too comfortable, but hey, it felt right; him, Pippin, on a throne…this could work out.

“You’re right, Merry, you should be King,” Pippin nodded. “It feels good. You’d make a good one too.”  
Merry looked at Pippin from his side of the throne and smiled. “Pip, you stupid hobbit, you would also be King, you know.”  
“What?” Pippin asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. He looked at Merry with question filled eyes, his confusion staring daggers into Merry’s.  
“And what are two hobbits from the Shire doing on the throne of Rohan?” The hobbits looked across to see Lady Eowyn watching them with a smile on her face.  
Both Merry and Pippin stood quickly, looking down at their feet, trying to look as innocent as possible.  
“Do not stand on my account, little ones,” she said with a smile, approaching them. “I thought you looked quite…fitting up there. Kings Merry and Pippin of the Shire.”  
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell Pip,” Merry said, looking at his Lady’s face, widened in a smile. “I think we would make good Kings of the Shire, My Lady.”  
Eowyn laughed; a light, airy, honest laugh that could have just about lit up the entire hall if it were full of people. “Off you go, you two, my brother will be here soon, and I’m sure he wouldn’t like to see you two swanning around near the throne. Come.” She laughed, ushering the two hobbits out of the Great Hall.

“What did you mean, Merry?” Pippin’s whisper – or what would be classed as just a hushed voice, but in Pip’s world is a whisper – breaks the silent of the night outside the Great Hall. Neither hobbit’s could sleep that night, the night before Théoden’s funeral, so the two of them took outside the Great Hall of Rohan, sitting with their feet dangling off the side of the wall.  
“Mean with what, Pip?” Merry asked, looking across the sky at where Mordor used to lie, the orange glow no longer there, just a dark sky now, matching the rest of the Middle Earth sky…peaceful, happy, normal.  
“When you said I would be King as well? Surely there can only be one King. Even in the Shire,” Pip asked, his voice splintered with utter confusion. Merry smiled and looked at Pippin; his heart expanding, his stomach fluttering with butterflies. He loved Pippin more than anything in this world; even his own country. As long as Merry had Pip, everything in this world would be good, and better, and how it should be. They could still be in Isengard, or even Mordor as it was, but if Pip was by his side, then Merry could handle it.  
“Peregrin Took, what was it Gandalf used to say?” Merry smirked.  
“He used to call me a Fool of a Took,” Pippin said, looking into his lap, as if caught red handed. “What did I do this time, Merry?”  
Merry frowned and put his hand lightly on Pippin’s chin, moving it up so he could look at him. He took his hand away and smiled warmly at his cousin. He looked into his green eyes, seeing the innocence, the hurt, even through everything that happened during the war, Pippin was still a young, innocent little hobbit, and that was one of the things Merry loved about him; no matter what they went through, no matter what happened to them – being taken by the Uruks, watching Frodo nearly die quite a few times, being parted, fighting a war – Pippin still kept his sense of innocence and his hobbit qualities, and it warmed Merry’s insides to no end.  
“Merry?” Pippin asked.  
Merry looked at his cousin again and couldn’t work out how he could tell him. Maybe he should just say it, no curving around the subject, just telling him the truth? Or maybe he should just say nothing?  
No, nothing was not an option; Merry had to tell him. And it had to happen now. But how? He looked at his feet again, bracing himself. He wouldn’t think about it, he would just say it. Like the hobbit he was, he would just do.  
“Pip, I need to talk to you, about something that I think you know deep down, but we’ve never spoke of before.” Merry said, still looking at his feet.  
“Okay, Merry, what is it?” Pippin asked.  
“Pip, I love you,” Merry said, closing his eyes. He could feel the tears film over his eyes even with the lids closed.  
“I love you too, Merry. I’ve always known that, I mean…”   
Merry interrupts his cousin by looking at him, his eyes opened and tears spilling out like little streams. “Pip, I mean, I really love you. Like the real deal, you know? Like Aragorn loves Arwen, like Lady Eowyn love Captain Faramir, like…like real love. True love. Pip, I love you, you fool of a Took.” He smiles, sniffing back a few more tears, but it was no use, they still fell.  
Pippin was silent and stared at his feet for a few moments, each moment like a sting in the chest to Merry, just waiting for the answer from his cousin.  
“Merry, I…I have always known, for I have felt the same about you too, but I…I…” the younger hobbit’s voices trailed off, not wanting to say anything more. He stood instead and held onto his forehead, unsure of what to say. “I need to sleep, Merry.”  
“Okay,” Merry nodded, standing up and facing his cousin. He watched Pippin for a minute before leaning over, pressing a soft kiss into Pippin’s soft brown curls on his head. “I love you, Peregrin Took.”  
“I love you, Merry,” Pippin responded, though even Pippin himself didn’t know the extent to which that statement was true. The younger hobbit looked up at his taller cousin and leaned forward, pressing a small kiss onto Merry’s lips.  
The older hobbit’s body almost froze at the small contact, but he quickly settled into the kiss, responding with a soft kiss back, but being careful; he didn’t want to overstep the mark with him, because he knew Pippin was confused.   
The kiss only lasted two more moments before the younger hobbit took a light step back and smiled at his cousin.  
“We will make you King, Merry, you will be a good one,” Pippin said softly. “Unless of course, the plan doesn’t work, then you can just be the Mayor.”   
Merry laughed out loud, his tears drying up now. “That would be equally as fun, Pippin. Go to bed.” Pippin nodded and walked back into the Great Hall, while Merry stayed on the spot, looking out over Rohan.  
Maybe Pippin was right; he may not get to be King, but he could be the Mayor. When he would be Mayor, he could make all his loyal hobbits make him a throne, and be the King, just without the title or a crown.  
Sorted.


	2. Portrait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is something I wrote for a OC fanfic I've written (and not publishing) but basically, my OC is taken by Sauron who calls himself Annatar to her, and she asks him about Melkor. I like it actually. And it's basically in the OC POV but, I like the content, so... yeah.

I stare at the only portrait in the throne room; actually, the only portrait I have seen in any room I have been in, in this Tower, and I think I have been in all the ones I am permitted in. It is dark, only with a man on it, as the main subject of the portrait. A man, dark and full of darkness, power and corruption, and that is only his eyes. His body looks as if it were bigger than anything on this earth, he looks so evil. If I knew not of Annatar’s Maiar form, I would have thought this was him, but I know it is not.  
“That is my master, Melkor, which is Quenyan, and means ‘one who arises in might’,” Annatar’s voice says. I turn around and see him approaching me and stopping the opposite side of the portrait, as if it were a part of the conversation.  
“You have a master?” I ask him, though I already know the tale, but surely it would be interesting to hear it from his side too?  
He stares at the portrait and contemplates his answer for a moment. “Everyone has a master, nin melme, even you. I am yours, and before me, you had Galadriel,” he says, for the first time acknowledging my past life. “Aye, Melkor was mine, before he was captured. Now I am my own master, doing my own bidding.”  
I look at him, intrigue deep in my mind. I know the tale, I know what happened to Melkor, I know what Annatar plans for Middle Earth, but hearing this from him, himself, it intrigues me so much.  
“I still believe Melkor is a good master, even though he is defeated and no longer able to manifest himself. I believe he is the one true God on this earth, much like your people believe in Eru and the Valar. You have much to learn, nin melme, and you will see the error of your beliefs eventually,” Annatar says, looking at me and then the portrait again.  
“You believe in him, yet, you would do your own bid?” I ask, confused.  
“You do not yet believe in me fully, do you, nin melme, I can see that every time you look at me. You may have surrendered, but you do not yet have full belief, do you? But yet you would do my bid tomorrow if it meant you could go free, would you not?” Annatar asks, looking down at me. “I know it is true, you need not lie. For, I do not need you to do any kind of bid. I only ask you to stay with me, to believe in me.”  
I look away from him and to the portrait again. “Do you miss it?”  
“Miss what, nin melme?” he asks.  
“The way it was, before Mordor, before this tower?” I ask and watch him; his expression changes, and I can sense he is thinking seriously about the answer. I see a small smile, a genuine, reminiscing smile on his face.  
“I remember it, I do, I remember everything before…before, when I was a Maiar, before I forged the Ring, before…the First Age, the Second Age, and now, the Third Age…I remember it all. Just like you remember all the years of your life, even though you are over a thousand years old. You may not know what an Age on this Earth feels like yet, but when you do, imagine three of those, and you will know; you will look back and understand what it feels like to remember what life was like before. For you it will be before me, for me it is before Melkor.” Annatar says. “Nin melme, being a servant, or having a master, it is like an unconditional love; it corrupts your mind, it takes you over, and whenever you look upon that person, you feel love for them, you want to be with them all the time, you want to do whatever they ask of you. It is like…you never want harm to come to them, it is like an obsession of the mind, something that no matter what you do, no matter what you feel for them, you cannot get them out of your mind. You can love them, hate them, want them dead, save them from imminent death, but whatever you feel for them, you never wish them dead, you never stop loving them. Having a master; it is the best and the worst thing on this earth.” I look to the portrait once more, wanting to know something more, anything, I want to hear him speak like this again, like a real human being, a real person on this earth and not like an evil, corrupted villain.   
“Annatar, I…” I look but he is already gone, the doors to the throne room closed with only me and the portrait in the room. I look to the floor, imagining him before evil got to him; I wonder what he was like, if he spoke like he just spoke to me. I heard the longing in his voice; maybe he longed for a day when he wasn’t like this. Though, I suppose he knows only this, and never anything else. Just like I suppose if I do not escape here any time soon, if I do not find the man of Gondor and find that happiness, then the vision of me being Annatar’s Queen will happen, and that will be all I will know.


	3. Tyrant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is in Prince Imrahil's POV. I've taken the bit from the film where Pippin swears his service and Faramir's sent off to Osgiliath, but added Imrahil to it, and taken his POV of that scene. Simply because I love Imrahil and he's one of my favourite characters, and I think he should've been in the film, but whatever.

It was all Prince Imrahil could do not to simply run after his sister-son Faramir and refuse him and his company of soldiers to go on this death sentence. What was Denethor thinking, sending the soldiers over there? The city is overrun with orcs, they laid siege, they even lost valuable soldiers during the attack, what could he possibly be thinking in attempting to retake it? The city should be defending their White Tower, no doubt the Enemy will be sending his forces to attack them; Mithrandir had said so himself, the Halfling had seen it in the Palantir.   
His brother-in-law was maddening, surely? Could he not see that they needed every sword they could get? Not to mention how he could send his only living son to his death. Imrahil had no doubt that every single soldier Denethor was sending would not return to Minas Tirith; even Faramir himself knew that and he was Captain. Why, then are the Minas Tirith soldiers being sent out to Osgiliath and not Imrahil’s Swan Knights of Dol Amroth? If Denethor wishes to retake the City, then he would know that they would need more than six hundred soldiers against a city riddled with the Enemy’s forces. Could it be that he is simply not wishing for the City back, and he is sending his only living son; the one he never really loved to his death?  
No, that could not be. Imrahil knew, of course, that Denethor had never really shown Faramir love, not once in all of his years since Finduilas – may Eru bless her soul – had died. Faramir was five years old, and not to blame for his mother’s untimely death, but Denethor did not see it that way, of course not, so ever since, he had blamed Faramir and not shown the love he had shown Boromir. Imrahil could understand that his brother-in-law needed someone or something to blame, but why that someone had to be his own son, Imrahil did not understand. It was strange to think that while himself, Imrahil never blamed anyone for his dearest sister’s death, why Denethor could think it possible that his own son could be blamed for the tragedy.   
But nevertheless, as Steward of Gondor, Denethor was higher than he. Imrahil may be the Prince of Dol Amroth, but ultimately, the Steward of Gondor gives his orders and he must bow down to them like he is the King of the Realm. He could send soldiers on a death mission and no one would know any different, because the realm believed him to be a good leader; strong and determined, knowing what is best for Gondor. But in reality, Denethor’s mind was leaving him, his sense of judgement clouded by his lust for power, his lust for the Ring of Power. Imrahil knew the deepest wishes of his brother-in-law, and he knew how much he wished for power. Ever since Finduilas died, Denethor’s mind wished for power and only power.  
“Lord Denethor, if I may…”  
“No, My Lord Imrahil, you may not,” Denethor cut him off as he picked up the goblet of wine on the table and drank. Imrahil sighed and looked behind him to see the doors closing behind Faramir, now sentenced to his probable death because of his Father’s complete madness. The doors closed and all Imrahil could hear was the resounding echo, the complete sombre mood of everyone in the room spare his brother-in-law. Even the Halfling standing in the corner, sworn into Denethor’s service, was now looking to the ground with a frown on his face. Imrahil remembered a mere day ago, the Hobbit was running around after Mithrandir and himself, excited to see the City, nervous for his friend and cousin he left behind in Rohan, but a hearty and excited Hobbit nonetheless. Now, this single moment had sunk his pure heart.  
“You may, however, see to the defences,” Denethor told him, putting the goblet down and replacing it with a tomato. Imrahil could not quite comprehend how he could possibly be eating and drinking at a time like this. War was nigh, the dark cloud of Sauron loomed over their kingdom, and his own son was about to ride out to retake a City that was overrun. How could he be eating now?  
“I will see it done, My Lord,” Imrahil eventually bowed to his brother-in-law and Steward.  
“Oh, and My Lord Imrahil?” Denethor called as Imrahil turned to leave. The Prince turned back and gave the Steward of Gondor a questioning look. “See that your Swan Knights are armed and ready; I will expect you to defend our City.”  
“My Lord,” Imrahil bowed his agreement, though reluctantly at that, and he walked out of the Citadel, angered.  
All of these years, ever since his sister married the Steward of Gondor – though he was not of that title when they were wed – Imrahil could not understand why the people of Gondor liked Denethor. He was a tyrant – nothing more than an oppressor. How could the country not see that? More than anything, Imrahil would enjoy seeing his sister-son Faramir on the throne of the Steward, or even for Isildur’s heir to come riding into the country; Aragorn, son of Arathorn they name him. They say he was riding with Mithrandir and is currently in Rohan. Imrahil knew that the entirety of Middle Earth would most like survive the oncoming onslaught if Gondor had a better ruler, not some useless tyrant ruling; not a man who did not wish to give up his seat in the Citadel for anything nor anyone. Of course, Imrahil would keep this opinion to himself; he could have his head ripped off without a second thought if his brother-in-law ever heard of these thoughts. He knew he should not think such things about the man his sister wedded, but Finduilas, the beauty that was his sister, she was long dead and buried in the Hallows in the White City, when she should have been buried in her home of Dol Amroth, by the sea that she loved so much and yearned for when she was dragged to Minas Tirith. But nonetheless, not even Imrahil could see the good side to his brother-in-law. Not once, not before his wife died, nor after his wife died. Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Lord and Steward of Gondor would never have a good, unselfish bone in his body…yet, even so, Imrahil still had to do his bidding, and alas, Faramir and the soldiers still had to ride out to their death mission, whatever Imrahil thought. And that was the way of the world, and if they lost this war, then they would all be dead, and it would be because of their Steward. But even so, Imrahil could not change that, nor would he try. He would rather die honourably in battle than to be slain because of his wicked thoughts.


	4. Aid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Pippin. I love Pippin, and this one's his POV when he rushes to Gandalf and Beregrond to help Faramir from getting burned alive. <3

As Pippin rushed down the sieged streets of Minas Tirith, his breath was beginning to labour; he could not stop, no, he could not. He needed to get to Gandalf, or failing that, Beregrond would aid him, he was sure of that.  
How could Denethor fail to see that his son was alive? It had been so obvious; Faramir had been speaking, breathing. And then to release him from service? Why, Pippin knew not how to feel about that; he was sure it was a good thing, because now he could get aid to save Faramir, but Pippin felt a little alienated. Since the incident with the skeleton in the Mines of Moria, Pippin had wished to make Gandalf proud, he wished to make himself known as a hero, like Frodo and Sam, like Aragorn. Pippin knew he could do it, he knew he had it in him. Gandalf may have hailed him a ‘fool of a Took’, but no Took across the Shire had gone on an adventure quite like this. If any of his family heard of the tales, Pippin’s tale would be as famous as old Bilbo’s incident with the dragon. But that would only be if Pippin got to Gandalf, he needed to save Faramir.   
The streets of Minas Tirith were more than triple Pippin’s Halfling height, and with parts of the city burning, being struck by boulders, with people running all around him, orcs chasing the bigger men, the screams filling the air, it was all Pippin could do to raise his head and search through his helm. This world was too big for him, but now he had to be as fearless as Bilbo, as brave as Merry, Frodo and Sam, this time, he had to keep on despite his height. All he was looking for was Shadowfax with his white body or even Gandalf in his white cloak. That was all.  
“Gandalf!” Pippin screamed as loud as his voice allowed. His sword was in his hand and he was ready to kill an orc if he needed to: he’d done it many times before now; in the mines of Moria, in the forest before Boromir died, and just before Faramir had been brought back from Osgiliath. He knew what to do: Boromir had taught him and Merry. He just did not like doing it. It felt so final. Even though they were just orcs: bred for evil and killing his own kind, even killing an orc to Pippin seemed like wrong. In a world where he lived peacefully, never went on an adventure, maybe save to steal from Farmer Maggot, Pippin never thought of killing anything, let alone an orc twice his own size. But, he needed to. For Middle Earth, for himself, for Frodo, Sam, Merry, for Faramir.   
“Gandalf!” Pippin tried again, but to no avail. He pushed a child out of his way and jumped over a dead body bearing the armour of Gondor. Countless scattered the streets: dead or injured and unable to be saved, orcs, wargs, children even, but Pippin had no time to deliberate it. He needed to find Gandalf, and he was now entering the second level of Minas Tirith, which meant he could be in danger here. He needed to focus. White horse, white rider, that was all Pippin needed to know.  
“Gandalf!”  
He saw him then: tall against all the creatures and people, on a white horse in a white cloak, with Beregrond sat on a dark horse beside him. Both of the people who would know what to do. In this world too big for Pippin, he had finally achieved something. He could finally do something Gandalf would approve of and get aid.  
“Gandalf!” Pippin bolted over to the riders. Both Beregrond and Gandalf looked down from killing and giving orders to take notice. “Denethor has lost his mind! He’s burning Faramir alive!”  
Gandalf gave one single look to Beregrond and nodded. The next thing he knew, Pippin was lifted up onto Shadowfax and was being ridden up the streets.  
“Quickly!” Gandalf ordered.  
Pippin breathed. He had achieved something. He was no longer a fool of a Took, but brave Peregrin Took and he had hopefully saved a life.


End file.
